Indiscretions
by Misato
Summary: Section 15.03 of every SHIELD agent's manual of rules and regulations outlines the official policy on fraternization, specifically the kind between handlers and field agents under their authority – in short, don't. Their luck was due to run out eventually. Clint/Coulson/Natasha, set between Iron Man 1 & 2.
1. Chapter 1

Clint's head _ached_. He didn't know what idiot junior agent they'd had in charge of the artillery and he had half a mind to put in an official inquiry to find out; they'd aimed too close to his perch and every time a shell exploded the sound was like a dagger being driven directly into his temple. Between that and being awake for twenty-eight hours straight he was tempted to skip out on the debriefing and sneak off to see if he could find somewhere quiet to close his eyes for a few hours.

Not that he'd get away with it; eventually Coulson would track him down and stare at him until he dragged himself up and got it over with. It had happened before.

As the chopper touched Nat glared at him, too exhausted to even flick her hair out of her eyes. "Don't even think about it. If I have to go over that mess in gory detail for the next hour so do you."

"How'd you know I was thinking about that?"

"You're always thinking about that."

Which was true; Clint had never met a debriefing he didn't want to run from. He rode out the final landing jolt – he was apparently _surrounded_ by junior idiots today – and jumped from the helicopter the moment the hatch opened, Nat right behind him. Coulson was there to meet them at the edge of the helipad and that...okay, that was a little strange. Clint would have expected him to be preparing the debrief. God knew with the mess of a mission they'd left in their rearview Coulson could justify using all the fancy Stark tech holo charts his heart desired.

"Glad to see you're both in one piece."

Not like he hadn't been monitoring the festivities closely enough to know how many lucky breaks that had taken. "We doing the debrief out here?"

"The situation's changed."

The tone in Coulson's voice stood Clint up straight, made him take a closer look and he felt the adrenaline start to flow because Coulson looked scattered. Distracted. Clint had seen him in control rooms juggling three different missions at once without ever being close to distracted. "What the hell did we miss?" Clint asked, reaching out to put one hand on his forearm – whatever they'd missed, it must have been _bad_.

Coulson jerked his arm back, his eyes flicking up quick and hard. _Distance, Barton._ Like they were in the middle of a big briefing surrounded by half of SHIELD, not standing on an all but empty helipad. Then he sighed, his shoulders slumping and suddenly Clint wanted nothing more than to be back in the field sitting way to close to artillery fire. "I want you both to be honest," he said, looking from Clint to Nat then back for good measure. "Neither one of you are in any trouble." He rubbed his forehead, like he'd managed to catch Clint's headache. "Barton, I think they want to see you first."

Clint glanced over to Nat; he knew she'd caught everything he had and more but he couldn't read her expression now. And in a way, that told Clint everything he needed to know anyway - if Nat had her guard up to the point even he couldn't break through this had to be as bad as it got. Clint realized he must have hesitated too long when Coulson gave him another look, this one almost pleading. _Barton, for once just do what I tell you._ Clint swallowed hard. "Yes, sir," he said, making his way inside without another backward glance.

There was an agent in a black suit and matching shades there to escort him, one Clint didn't know. There was nothing to do except follow, Clint concentrating on the thud of his boots hitting the floor to distract himself from wondering what was waiting for him and the aggravation of not even being allowed to change out of his gear before having to deal with whatever _this_ was.

They finally stopped at the smaller conference room, Fury's favorite and Clint knew he had to be spitting mad at it being commandeered (he knew Fury couldn't be the one behind this, it wasn't his style and he wouldn't have put Coulson so on edge.) The escort stepped aside and let Clint open the door himself; after a taking a quick breath Clint keyed in his ID number and pushed the door open.

There were two men in the room, neither of them anyone Clint knew; seated at the table was a big man, broad-shouldered and muscled like he'd just wandered in from a weightlifting competition, the build contrasting with his business casual suit and bright green hair. Standing next to him was an older man, Clint put his age somewhere in his late forties-early fifties, dressed in an olive Army officer's uniform. He wore a full colonel's stripes and Clint ground his teeth; that was a much higher level of brass than he ever cared to deal with. The officer caught Clint's eye and waved him toward the empty chair at the table. "Specialist Barton," he said, a broad smile on his face. "Have a seat. We'll try to keep this portion of the proceedings as brief as possible, I expect you'll want to unwind after your operation. Very good work."

Clint took the seat, feeling like this had already gone on too long. "I prefer Agent Barton. If it's all the same to you."

The man's eyebrows drew together, as if he didn't understand why Clint would say that. "I meant no offense. I always like to refer to servicemen by their rank."

"No offense, but I'm not all that proud of a lot of my service. Sir." Technically Clint didn't need to Sir him, he wasn't even in SHIELD from what Clint could tell but anything to move this along, no matter how much it rankled.

The man nodded, giving Clint a look he suspected was supposed to be sympathetic. "Whichever makes you more comfortable. Agent. But from what I've read of your file-" Clint hoped the flash of _Oh God, he's read my file_ didn't show on his face – "yours looks more like a case of poor commanders than poor service. A man should never be ashamed of following orders."

Clint was on the verge of mentioning how that hadn't gone over so well at Nuremberg when the second man decided it was time to speak up. "Colonel, if I may?" The colonel nodded and he continued, "Agent Barton, my name is Dr. Leonard Samson. You can call me Dr. Samson, Doc, Leo, whatever you like. My associate here is Colonel William Royce and he'll both be monitoring and in a limited fashion participating in these proceedings."

"You're a shrink," Clint said. He'd recognized the name; it had come up in one of the Banner briefings, he'd been a guinea pig in one of the Army's gamma experiments after the Hulk fiasco. At least it looked like this one had gone better than Banner's little trip to radiation land.

"That's one of the nicer words for it, yes."

"My yearly psych eval was less than two months ago, I can't be due again already."

Samson shook his head. "You are being evaluated in a way, but nothing you say here will affect your field status or wind up in your record. Everything here is as confidential as it gets."

Clint leaned back in his chair. "You're not one of the SHIELD shrinks."

He shook his head again. "I'm an independent. I'm who SHIELD contracts for these kind of situations."

"Someone mind telling me exactly what kind of situation I'm in the middle of here?"

"Doctor, if I may?" Samson nodded and Royce took a step forward. "I'm a member of the Council Oversight Committee and head of Investigations. You can think of us as a kind of Internal Affairs for SHIELD if you like."

Clint dug his nails into the arm of the chair. "Look, I don't know what's going on but my disciplinary record's been clean for a long time, I haven't been so much as written up in over five years..."

"Relax, son," Royce said. "You're not the one on trial." The fatherly tone Royce kept using set Clint's teeth on edge. The guy had barely ten years on him, fifteen at the most and he kept talking to Clint like he was some green kid fresh out of boot camp.

Samson cleared his throat, drawing Clint's attention back. "Agent Barton, approximately how long has Phil Coulson been operating as your handler?"

Well. That wasn't a question he'd expected. "Um...since the end of the first year."

Samson glanced over at Royce, who nodded to continue. "And how many other handlers have you worked with?"

Clint frowned, trying to figure out where this was going. "Since then, you mean? A couple here and there when the situations arose but no one long term."

"Is it unusual for a field agent to have the same handler for so long a time?"

"I kind of have a history."

Samson nodded, marking down notes in shorthand. "Phil Coulson is also Agent Romanoff's primary handler, is that correct?"

Clint couldn't keep his lips from curling up. "She also has a bit of a history."

Samson nodded. "And how would you judge Coulson's performance as your handler?"

Clint drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair, trying to figure out what answers they were angling for. "He's always on top of things. No one preps an operation better. Anyone at SHIELD could tell you the same."

"That and more," Royce said almost under his breath, earning a sideways look from Samson.

"What exactly's going on here?"

Samson put up one hand, a placating gesture. "Just answer the questions, please. Now, in the time you've worked with Agent Coulson have you ever seen him act inappropriately with any agents under his command?"

Clint couldn't stop his mouth from hanging open. "What?"

"In your experience, have you ever seen him take any kind of liberties?"

"I have no idea what you're getting at."

"Has he ever asked you or Agent Romanoff to keep secrets that weren't part of an operation? Or asked a personal favor?"

And suddenly it all slotted into place, like a target stepping right in front of his bow. Clint leaned back in the chair and stared back and forth between Royce and this Dr. Samson, the absolute absurdity of where these questions must be leading stunning him for a second. "Wait, let me get this straight," he said, unable to keep down the incredulous chuckle. "Are you saying this is all because you think Coulson's taking advantage of _us_?"

No one else laughed and Clint felt reality hit him like a cold wind. That had been a mistake, that had been a _bad_ mistake, it looked bad being that flip but he had to roll with it now. "Someone's playing a joke if that's the intelligence you're getting. Coulson's the last person you'd ever have to worry about."

"Agent Barton, please answer the questions."

Clint shifted in the chair again, fighting down his rising temper until he felt his emotions even out, smooth as glass. Nat wasn't the only one who could put up a mask. "No. Coulson's never been anything but professional."

Royce nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching up. Like he'd expected Clint to say that. He picked up a thick folder and paged through it for a few moments. "Let's go back to the end of that first year, when Coulson was assigned to you," he said, letting Clint see that it was his own file he was holding. "Walk me through it."

Clint chewed the inside of his lip, fighting down another spike of temper. He may be lying through his teeth but he wasn't the only one - he suddenly got the feeling he was going to be sitting here for a long, long time.

888

Natasha watched Clint's eyes follow Coulson out of the conference room side exit and into the commissary, flanked by a supremely irritated looking Maria Hill and one of the better SHIELD lawyers. "They gave him Walters," she said, making sure to look entirely absorbed in the report she was revising. "She's very good." She didn't elaborate that Fury having Legal pull one of its best lawyers off her usual caseload meant this must be very bad because it really didn't need to be said.

Not that Clint was listening, anyway. "He looks shaken up," he said.

Natasha risked another glance up and couldn't deny that Clint was right; Coulson's usual perfectly neutral expression was firmly in place but she noticed that he'd put his watch back on the wrong wrist after passing through the metal detectors and he'd raked one hand through his hair twice in the handful of moments she'd watched him. "I think that we can tell he's shaken up is how they know there's a problem."

"There isn't a _problem_."

"Watch your eye lines."

Clint swore and forced his gaze back to the report he was holding. "I hate this," he forced out through his teeth, leaning back in his chair with one foot draped over the back of hers. It was always easy to tell Clint's mental state based on how slippery his definition of personal space became. "I'm used to being the one behind the scope, not the one being watched."

"You'll have to get used to it." That was a reminder to herself as much as to him; she'd gotten complacent at SHIELD over the years, this was proof of it. She shouldn't have needed this reminder that not everyone with a SHIELD badge her ally.

As if reading her mind Clint said, "Which one of us screwed up? Were you able to get one of them to say?"

"No," she said, and not for any lack of trying. But there must have been a mistake made somewhere; this kind of investigation had to run on more than idle gossip. The Howling Commandos card she'd brought back from Munich last spring, maybe; she'd slipped it into Coulson's locker but she could have been spotted. Or when AIM had grabbed Clint during the mission in Seattle and shot him full of so many chemicals Medical was still trying to identify them all, she and Coulson hadn't been part of the rescue team that finally recovered him and he could have said something incriminating under the influence. Depending on how long this had been in the works it could have been any number of little mistakes over the years.

Clint's eyes started to wander back over toward where Coulson was conferring with Hill and Walters – Coulson hadn't so much as glanced in their direction, which was just as it should be – and Natasha tapped Clint's leg to get back his attention. He grimaced when he realized what he'd been doing, drumming his fingers against the table. "What's your read on those two, Royce and the shrink?"

Natasha pursed her lips, replaying the interrogation. "Samson is very sharp. I chose my words carefully and I still think he saw through me at times. I do think his claims of objectivity are more than just lip service, though."

"And Royce?"

She felt her lips curl down into a scowl before she controlled the expression. "Royce thinks he's serving justice."

Clint let out a soft, frustrated sigh. "He kept calling me 'son.' Haven't had someone do that so much since my own old man, and I didn't like it then."

"I think he's that sort. He even called me 'young lady' once."

Clint shook his head. "Why isn't Fury crushing this? He doesn't give a shit, we all know that."

Natasha shrugged, making sure the gesture looked like she was stretching her shoulders. "Even he has superiors."

Clint didn't seem to have an answer for that. "How's this gonna play out, Nat? What's the short term?"

Natasha knew that Clint sometimes liked to hear confirmed what he already knew. "Short term? We'll be assigned to interim handlers if we're not pulled from the field entirely." Clint scowled at that; there was no quicker way to make Clint Barton grouchy than to assign him to desk duty. "More of these fun little meetings until a final hearing."

"What's your read on the long term?"

Natasha glanced up at him, because she didn't think he'd like this at all. She wasn't very pleased with it herself. "If SHIELD is smart they'll assign us to new handlers permanently, no matter how the hearing works out." Clint shifted in his seat at that, a quick flash of panic in his eyes that he didn't smother fast enough. "And if the hearing goes poorly we'll have new handlers at any rate."

Clint nodded; there was really no escaping that. "They'll demote him, you think?"

It took all of her self control not to stare at him, because she ,_knew_ he wasn't that naïve. "Drummed out is the term I would use."

Maybe he really _was_ that naïve; his expression dropped into stark horror before he got himself back under control. "That's...out of SHIELD? Nat, they...this place is everything to him, you know that. The junior agents still spread around stories that he and Fury live here."

The thought made Natasha feel a little ill as well. "You asked."

Clint kept drumming against the table until Natasha stilled his hand, giving him a warning look. Some fidgeting was fine, expected even, but too much and people would start wondering if Clint was _too_ upset. It was bad enough they apparently had people whispering about them already. Clint squeezed her hand once before taking a deep breath, fake, practiced calm settling over his features. "The sight lines from the roof are pretty good," he said, dropping that casually into the conversation.

"No. Tempting, but no. And it wouldn't solve anything, the Council will just send a new inquisitor."

His shoulders slumped a little. "Just saying. They're pretty good." He started to drum his fingers again before catching himself, lacing his hands behind his head for a second until the urge passed. "I got to take a look at my file. That was exciting."

"I can imagine." Natasha had never seen Clint's file, or her own for that matter, and could only imagine all the lovely things that must be in there. "Did they need a hand truck to wheel it in?"

"Funny." He picked up the half-written report again to have something to do with his hands. "There was kill order from Fury in there. Apparently I'd been on double secret probation for a while without knowing it."

Natasha had been with SHIELD long enough to know that was the code phrase for a thirty day order of dismissal. Real kill orders never made their way into any files. "How long was left on it?"

"Six days. It's not like I hadn't known I'd be heading back to contracting, before Coulson took my case I hadn't been cleared for the field in three months because none of the handlers would touch me. I just didn't know I had less than a week."

"Wouldn't none of the handlers touch you because you broke your previous handler's jaw?"

All these years later and she'd never seen Clint look sorry about that. "Okay, fine that didn't help, I admit but that was just the last straw. It was the same every time, I'd get assigned a new one, they'd tell me how happy they were to work with me and then as soon as they got a look at my file it didn't matter what I did in the field, they all looked at me the same way. After a while they didn't need to read my file, word just got around. And each time that happened..." He let out a sharp breath. "You wouldn't have liked me back then. I was angry. Keep me away from gamma experiments angry."

Clint shook his head, his eyes going flinty and hard in that way that always made ice line her veins. It was a few long minutes before he spoke again, his voice lost in the past. "I killed a twelve-year-old once. Probably more than once, but that's the youngest confirmed. I was working a security contract in the Sudan, and I don't know if you ever had reason to be there back then but what a clusterfuck that was." Clint glanced up at her, a _You sure you want to hear this?_ expression and Natasha nodded. Clint rarely worked himself into a confessional mood; Natasha had told him virtually everything she'd ever done within the first six months, more as a test to see if he'd turn on her than out of remorse, at least back then, but Clint's past only ever came out in painful fragments, names whispered in nightmares and horror stories told late at night after too much wine.

"My unit was babysitting this minor warlord, no one important enough to make waves internationally but smart enough to grab some strategic territory and hold it. All the big shots used child soldiers but he liked to keep them close, he figured the NATO boys wouldn't take shots at him if he kept the kids in the way. And he was right about that, so hey, good thinking. He had a good thing going but by the time my unit got out there he was getting pretty full of himself – demanding kickbacks, harassing the other defense contractors, blocking supply lines, that kind of thing. So he needed to be humbled but we couldn't just take him out, he was working as a bottleneck with two of the other warlords and we needed them all fighting with each other so no one got too powerful. So about three days after the chopper landed my CO came to me and told me to handle it.

"Found myself a good perch and set up a nest, just watching the camp for a few days." His tongue flicked out over his lips. "The twelve-year-old was the first day. Through the eye. Just happened to be standing next to his boss. After that I took out one a day, all through the eye so he would know it wasn't random. He'd send out parties to find me but none of them ever came back, the rest of the unit took care of them, and each morning it was the same thing, whoever was standing next to him got an arrow for their troubles. I could see him starting to go crazy but he never had the guts to walk around the camp alone. Like he was trying to make it easy for me." His lips twitched up into a grim smile. "This went on for nine days before he finally decided to play ball. Two of them were his own kids, found that out later." He shook his head, the spell breaking. "Not a lot of people still feel like working with someone after reading that. And even the ones who could still look at me, they just treated me like something to aim."

After all these years he still looked at her like her like expected judgment. As if she hadn't done worse. "Why did you break your old handler's jaw?"

"I thought the mission plan as laid out carried too big a risk of civilian casualties and told him so." His lips twitched up again. "He said he was surprised a baby killer like me had even noticed." Clint mimed making a fist before shaking his head again. "Broke his jaw because he was right." Natasha had never seen his eyes so desolate. "Now it's all gonna happen again. My file's not like yours, most of your worst hits are still redacted 'cause it's all wrapped up in national security. Anyone with enough clearance to handle me has the clearance to read everything."

Natasha couldn't even find any words to comfort him because it was undeniably true. "Who was the handler who called you that?" she said, sorting through her mental rolodex of SHIELD handlers to see who she could imagine being so blunt.

"Jennings."

She only frowned at that. "I don't know him."

For the first time all conversation Clint's lips curled up into a real smile. "About six months in Coulson asked me the same question you did. I'd kept my mouth shut when I'd been interrogated about the incident so the reason why never made it into the file and I guessed not knowing was driving him nuts. It took him three days but he finally got me to talk, and when I was done he...you know that smile Coulson has that's not really a smile?" Natasha nodded. "He just gave me that look and said, 'You should have told me sooner,' he said, doing a passable impression. "Two days later Jennings was reassigned to Bulgaria." Even after all this time Clint still looked like he could hardly believe that had happened. "One of the first things Coulson said to me – aside from saying that he'd taken me on because he didn't believe in assets going to waste – was that he didn't care about what was in my file, just what I'd do for SHIELD. I told him that was a load of crap because every handler told me that, and he just said that this time it was true. He was the only one who'd meant it."

Clint looked over at Coulson again, and this time Natasha didn't have the to heart to tell him to stop. "It's been a good run here. Longer than I thought it would last. Maybe it's time to move on."

That set off every alarm Natasha had. "You told me once that if I came with you I'd find a home here."

Clint was quiet for a few moments. "Maybe I was wrong."

888

Two days later Clint was back in that room opposite Samson with Royce off to the side. Samson looked to Royce, who nodded and that confirmed the conclusion he'd come to with Nat that he was the one writing the questions, Samson was just translating them into shrink talk. "Agent Barton," Samson said, tapping the folder in front of him into neat edges before opening it. "Why don't we talk about your relationship with Natasha Romanoff?"

_Oh, that's sharp._ Clint shifted in his chair; they were trying to throw him by changing the subject but he recognized the tactic – he and Nat were the same rank, as much as SHIELD had ranks. Since neither of them gave each other orders a...more than professional relationship wasn't technically against regs. Wasn't exactly given a full blessing, either, but as long as everyone kept things quiet and it didn't affect work performance the field agents could take up with each other all they liked. And it wasn't like he and Nat were any kind of secret.

But Clint knew that could be twisted to make it seem like a discipline issue, that Coulson wasn't running a tight enough ship. Not to mention the old tactic of getting Clint to get admit to one thing, then chipping away for more. "I don't know what you're referring to."

Samson gave him an _Oh come on_ look. "When did your relationship with Agent Romanoff pass beyond the professional?"

888

Clint hears the rumble behind him but doesn't have time to so much as turn around before the avalanche buries him, like something out of an old Warner Brothers cartoon. He can't even shout before he's off his feet with his mouth full of snow, so much weight pressed against his chest he's unconscious before he can even start digging himself out.

The next thing he remembers is coming to in the cave they'd passed on the way up, Nat on top of him and to this day he doesn't know how she managed to dig him out and drag him halfway down the mountain. There's a small fire but he can't feel it, he's so cold. She has his wet gear half off but she's smaller than him and body heat only goes so far. All he wants to do is close his eyes but Nat won't let him; she straddles him across his waist and cradles his head, talking to him although he doesn't know the words, whether they're English or Russian or some mix of both.

He can't feel his hands. He'd only been wearing half gloves, they weren't supposed to be up here long enough for it to matter and he doesn't like shooting with full ones; now the skin is dead white and he can't feel them and he can't move them. He's with it just enough to know that's bad, he's got pain shaking through him everywhere else but he still can't feel his hands. That terror's worse than the fear that he might not get off this mountain because even if an extraction team finds them without his hands _what good is he?_

He thinks he must have said something because Nat slides his hands under her gear, flush against her skin; she's like a furnace and it _hurts_ but she won't let him pull away. She's shivering now too and Clint knows he should tell her to get out, to get back down the mountain until she finds the signal and can report but he's not coherent enough. He wants to close his eyes so bad but she keeps shaking him awake.

Clint remembers an article he read when he was a kid about Everest, about how it's too dangerous to recover the ones who fail the climb so they're left where they fall. Even back then heights had been his refuge and that they could betray you like that had messed with him, showing up in dreams until he gave himself more concrete things to have nightmares about. Nat leans over him, holding his head up to try to force eye contact._ ...right here, Clint_. She's never called him Clint before, since the day he'd recruited her it's always been Agent Barton. He likes the way she says his name. He likes the way she says most things. _Not going anywhere, I promise._

He tries to touch her face, even if his hands are still too numb to move; she uncurls his fingers and presses his hand against her cheek, nodding at him. He shivers so hard his skull knocks against the floor of the cave and she cradles his head up. He feels his eyes blinking closed again and tries to fight it because he knows this might be the last chance he gets to look at her.

Clint leans up and brushes his lips against hers; he's wanted to do this forever, probably since the day he'd recruited her if he's honest but he'd held himself back. The last thing he wanted was for her to think that's why he made that call, but he's dying and she's beautiful. He hopes she'll forgive him.

She holds him against her, her lips moving against his as she whispers words he can't make out. The last thing he feels before slipping back under is her breath warm against his lips.

888

Clint shifted in his chair again. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, the lie a blatant challenge. _Prove that I'm lying. Let's see what you have._ "Maybe you haven't read Agent Romanoff's file, but the woman scares the hell out of me."

888

She made the doctor uneasy. Not nervous, just uneasy; she could tell he was a man used to being able to read others and he was having trouble with her. It made him proceed carefully, like a well-matched opponent in the early stages of a fencing match.

Royce was another issue; he treated her with the deeply concerned pity she'd learned to expect from some men when they read her file, what little of it was available, the kind that wrapped itself in sympathy. Like she was a bruised butterfly, some helpless thing that needed his protection. She encouraged that feeling, drawing out his emotions when she saw the opportunity. Men like Royce revealed themselves when they felt like someone was asking for their chivalry, and anything that let him underestimate her could be useful.

Samson was falling for none of it. She was beginning to like the man. "Agent Romanoff, how would you characterize the relationship between Agents Barton and Coulson?"

She watched Royce's reaction, the faint curl of his lip. She wondered if the disgust was simply because both of those names were male or because he also thought Clint was something that needed to be protected. Probably a little of both. "Frankly, it would probably do Barton good to be forced to work with other handlers. He's been coddled." They're looking for impropriety; she could give them something that matched the file but still wasn't actionable.

Royce nodded but Samson saw through the word play. She dearly wished the colonel hadn't found himself so intelligent a bloodhound. "When you first were brought into SHIELD you had an outsider's point of view. Did you notice any...irregularities?"

Natasha wondered if it taking her two weeks to notice that Coulson was the only handler Clint made a point of calling Sir would count as an "irregularity." It had certainly come as a surprise to her that she'd missed it for so long. Or when she'd noticed how Coulson would hold himself a little straighter when he knew Clint was up on some hidden perch watching him, especially when some time went by and she knew them well enough to see how much _Clint_ liked watching him and back and forth until it all became a voyeuristic feedback loop. Or how surprised she'd been the first time Coulson had casually called her by her first name, first Natasha and then Tasha, when with Clint it was always Barton. How he never demanded any of the deference Clint gave him from her or any of the other agents he handled.

But really, Natasha would have to say the most irregular thing she'd ever noticed was when she'd realized that despite the Sirs and the watching and the general circling around each other there was actually _nothing going on._ At least not then, and not for a frustratingly long time afterward considering she had to work around all that tension. Considering how quickly she and Clint fell into bed she still wasn't sure what had been wrong with the two of them for so long.

She remembered Clint forcing her to watch _The Princess Bride_ with him one night, part of his campaign to get her to watch all of the movies of his youth under the guise of helping her blend in better with Americans, ignoring that she'd done a perfectly good job of that before meeting him. She'd found the movie unbearably twee aside from the very entertaining if not in any way realistic sword fights, not that she'd told Clint any of that since he spent the whole film utterly enthralled.

It did give her a moment of clarity, though, when she realized all the Sirs and "Barton"s were their version of _As You Wish_ and neither of them had realized it yet. It made her give serious consideration to rolling them both down a hill to see if that did any of them any favors.

"No, I can't say I noticed anything inappropriate between them when I was recruited."

"So in your opinion there were no incidents that struck you as memorable?"

888

They're still just setting up for the mission when Coulson shoves her hard to the ground. "Get down!" he says, then the next second she hears the crack of a rifle shot, the sound coming from a building on the opposite side of the plaza from where she knows Clint's set up his nest. She hits the dirt as the sound echoes around the quiet buildings and sees Coulson do the same in her peripheral vision. She counts to five but there's no more shots; she picks her head up, knowing the movement puts her at risk but not much more than being exposed like this does anyway.

That's when she realizes Coulson isn't moving. She commando crawls over to him, reaching him as he finally starts to stir; she turns him over and sucks in a breath when she sees blood already soaking through the front of his suit. "You should have ducked too."

"I'll take that under advisement," he whispers back, and Natasha doesn't know if that's a good sign or just proof shock already has him. He shakes his head when she starts tearing his suit open, trying to find the wound. "Get under cover."

She just quirks an eyebrow at that. "_No_," she says, making sure he knows that's a ridiculous order. There isn't much cover to find anyway and trying to drag him to what little she can find is the most efficient way to get them both killed. She finds the neat entrance wound and sets her hands against it; it's too far to the right to have hit his heart but even though she can't feel any air whistling out the placement's right for the bullet to be in his lung.

As if to confirm that he murmurs, "I can't catch my breath."

"I think it hit your lung," she says – no reason to sugarcoat things – and he nods. "I didn't see an exit wound so it's probably lodged." In some ways that's better news than if it had gone through, he'd bleed out faster with an exit wound. It takes all of her self-control not to look over to where Clint's hiding. "The sniper has a shot, why isn't he taking it?"

"They're dueling," he says. "Can't...reveal his position." She realizes it goes even deeper, the sniper's using them being in the crossfire as a shield. She really, _really_ hopes Clint puts an arrow right in his throat. And the sooner the better; Coulson's eyes are already fluttering and she presses harder, startling them back open.

"Wake up." Her hands are full of blood and he's wheezing for air; if the lung hasn't already collapsed it's well on its way. She can't call for back up because that would just be putting the rescue team in front of the sniper but by her estimation they only have minutes. "Stay awake and look at me."

She can tell he's trying; his eyes blink back open with another start, his hand latching tight around her wrist. "It feels like you're falling?" He nods and she knows it's a good sign he's still that alert. "That's the shock."

"I know," he says, his hand still tight around her wrist. "Been here before."

"It never does start getting fun, does it?" He shakes his head, squeezing her wrist. "Stay with me, Coulson."

"Allowed to...to call me Phil now. Considering." She can't stop her lips from curling up at that. "Why do you always laugh when you hear my name?"

"Because it's a funny name. _Phil_." He manages to scrape up the energy to look offended, which is the whole point, after all. "It doesn't suit you."

"'Nothing wrong with my name," he says, his voice going hazy again. His eyes are wide but glassy and Natasha wonders how much he's seeing. She watches him blink slowly and she can hear the blood in his lungs now, can see it at the corner of his mouth. "Tasha?" he whispers, as if he's not sure if she's still there.

"I'm right here," she says, watching until his eyes focus back on her. "Just keep breathing."

"Feels...feels like I'm under water."

"Breathe anyway." She does risk a glance up to Clint's perch then, making sure Coulson follows the movement. "Clint's up there, remember. Unless you want him to watch you die."

He actually _glares_ at her. "You fight dirty."

"I thought that's why SHIELD recruited me in the first place."

He's shivering hard now, his grip weak around her wrist as each breath takes him a little further away. "I'm sorry...ordered Barton to kill you."

"I'm not," she admits.

Coulson squeezes her wrist so hard she can feel his nails digging into her skin. "Don't let him quit."

She nods and that seems to be what he wanted; his grip starts to go slack again and Natasha adjusts her grip to keep his hand in place. "Don't you dare." His eyes are glazed over and she's not sure he can hear; she can feel his heart beating weak and rapid under her hands and knows she has to do something, fast.

Shock therapy, then. Natasha leans forward and kisses him on the lips, relief washing through her when she feels him reflexively try to return it. When she straightens back up there's such perfect surprise in his eyes that she almost laughs. "Keep breathing and I'll do that again someday. Understand?"

His voice is very small when he whispers, "Okay."

This much awareness is good. Better than good. "Now keep looking at me. Breathe when I breathe."

He nods, his eyes locked onto hers. They're very nice eyes, she notices for the first time. That blue-gray she's always been partial to. Sweat's pouring down her face despite the chill in the pre-dawn air and her shoulders burn, pins and needles racing up and down her arms. He must be able to see that exhaustion's about to overwhelm her because he whispers, "It's all right, Tasha."

"Shut up. _Phil_." If someone had told her a year ago she'd be fighting this hard to save the life of a man who'd ordered her dead she would have laughed. It hits her then like a bullet to the heart that she likes this new life she's fallen into at SHIELD and she's not ready to say goodbye to it. Not any part of it.

She hears the sharp sound of something slicing through the air, then an instant later there's a piercing cry and something falling with a wet, heavy thud. Another two seconds pass and she hears Clint's voice crackle over the comm. "We're clear," a tone there that turns her blood to ice.

She doesn't have time to deal with it now; she taps her earpiece and says, "Code 452, agent down and in need of assistance. Requesting a recovery team, _now_."

She breathes a sigh of relief when Hill answers; she's the only person Natasha's ever met who hates wasting time as much as she does. "Location?"

The back and forth only takes a few more seconds before the comm clicks back off and it takes less than two minutes for the helicopter to appear overhead. SHIELD is nothing if not prompt in an emergency. Coulson's hand stays latched around her arm like she's a good luck charm while Medical gets to work and while she's probably in the way neither of the EMTs want to be the one to tell her to leave. Considering that someone must have inside information to know to place a sniper at that location she isn't all that inclined to leave Coulson alone with anyone she doesn't know by both sight and name anyway.

Fortunately for everyone forced to deal with her HQ is the closest facility and Coulson's placed into senior enough hands that she can stop worrying on that front. Hill goes off to pin down the source of the leak, giving Natasha a nod of approval. She's amazed sometimes how quickly SHIELD's turned around from thinking she needed to be put down to considering her a valued member of the team.

It takes eighteen hours to stabilize Coulson and Natasha stays awake the entire time, downing coffee until she gives serious thought to asking Medical to hook an IV into her veins. She never even _liked_ coffee before joining SHIELD. She does manage to avoid being called in for a debriefing, a minor miracle, although there isn't much more to say aside from what's in the report she manages to cobble together.

Clint's not as fortunate; she catches a glimpse of him being led into a conference room by a cloud of senior agents, the look on his face like he's being led to a gallows. She watches as three hours click by then slips back to her bunk, listening for noise from the adjoining room.

She only has to wait ten minutes - SHIELD consistently running like a well-oiled machine does have its advantages. Clint slams the door so hard the wall vibrates. The wall is thin enough for her to hear him pace for a few seconds, the fall of his boots dull thuds on the floor, then something heavy crashing against the wall. She hears the sound of bed springs creaking as Clint lets out a low, ragged sob, then there's a few minutes of rustling before the door opened and closed again.

Natasha leans against the wall, her arms crossed in front of her. So. _That's_ what Coulson meant. Of course Clint would run. She can only imagine how much worse it would be if he'd taken a few more minutes to win the duel.

She waits twenty minutes – she doesn't think it would take any longer than that for Clint to get past the perimeter guards and away from HQ – then makes her way back to the ICU, settling in the chair at Coulson's bedside. "Well, you were right about what Clint would do," she says, taking his hand. "I'm giving him thirty-six hours, there'll be no reasoning with him until then."

She's not sure if she's imagining the faint squeeze she gets in return. "Just make sure you don't die before then," she says. "There will definitely be no reasoning with him then."

Natasha tracks him down just over the Quebec border, holed up in a flophouse motel that makes her want to take a shower just from looking at it. The lock is pitifully easy to pick and when she steps through the door Clint doesn't even look surprised. "SHIELD send you to drag me back?"

"I am here on orders," she says, closing the door behind her. It's technically true. "Clint, what are you doing?"

He doesn't look at her. "How's Coulson?"

She shrugs, pulling up a desk chair that's seen better days. "They took out a piece of lung," she says, watching Clint's fingers curl into the mattress. "So his marathon career is over but aside from that there shouldn't be any permanent affects."

When he finally does look up his eyes are bloodshot and his hands trembling. It takes a lot to make Hawkeye's hands shake. "I didn't see the sniper." She wonders if he's been intentionally not sleeping to make himself an easy target. They both know he has more than enough enemies who'd be happy to take advantage. "He had himself set up in a perfect nest and I didn't see it. It's my job to see it."

"There's nothing shameful about being fooled once by someone better..."

His next words come out in a growl. "There is _no one_ better than me."

_Got him._ "Then come back home and prove it."

He blinks at her for a second, like he's not quite sure what just happened, then he sits back on the edge of the bed. "Hate it when you do that."

"No you don't."

He shakes his head, pulling her closer and wrapping the tips of her hair around his fingers. "Thought you were cutting it short again."

She shrugs; she prefers it shorter, it's easier to fight with but some cover identities work better with it long like this. "This length is useful for a cover identity I'll need to use soon."

"I like it long." He presses his forehead against hers. "It's for real that he's gonna be okay?"

"Would I lie about that?"

"_Yeah._"

Fair enough. "If I was really lying it would be good enough that you wouldn't think to ask."

He chuckles at that, shaking fingertips tracing along her jaw before he kisses her. "That should have been a kill shot."

"It wasn't." She lets herself lean into the kiss this time as Clint's fingers trace over her heart where the bullet should have hit. "I'm all right, Clint. We all are." He nods but doesn't pull back, breathing in the words like he can't bring himself to believe them. She eases him back onto the bed and tangles his shaking hands through her hair. "Come home with me and I'll prove it."

"Told you I'd get you to call SHIELD home."

"Shut up." She kneels up and eases herself off the bed, pulling Clint to his feet after her. "Enough stalling. If Phil wakes up before I drag you back we're both going to be in trouble."

"Phil?" With that smirk on his face he almost looks like himself. "When did that start?"

"I'm full of secrets."

"He doesn't let me call him Phil."

Natasha just rolls her eyes at him, because they both know Clint wouldn't want him to. "Maybe he likes me better."

He kisses her again, deep gratitude in his eyes as he pulls back. "Can't say I blame him."

On the ride back it occurs to her that her bringing him back to SHIELD might technically make them even. Cross that debt out of her ledger.

She pulls over and watches him sleep in the front seat for a few minutes before deciding she'll give him this one for free.

888

Natasha returned Samson's look, holding his gaze. "SHIELD makes for a life full of memorable incidents, doctor. You're going to have to be more specific."

He tipped his chin up, giving her a little nod to acknowledge she'd won that volley. "I can well imagine."

Natasha leaned back, waiting for the next serve. She'd always been at her best when put on the defensive.


	2. Chapter 2

The session had gone on for over five hours already, patient question after patient question and Clint's head felt like a marching band had taken up residence in his skull. "Look," he said, making a show of rubbing his temples, "I have no idea where you two are even getting this." If playing this card didn't work Clint was all out of tricks. "The man ordered me dead. To my _face_."

888

Clint feels the muzzle of the railgun against the back of his head and forces himself to hold still. He hates AIM. He hates their stupid tech and he hates how the agents all have the same sneer no matter how hard you hit them and he especially hates how in his entire SHIELD career he's never been on a single mission involving AIM that didn't go catastrophically south.

And sure, maybe that is a slight exaggeration but he's kneeling on the floor, his bow's broken and he has the weapon prototype they'd been sent to acquire pressed against the soft spot of his skull. He'll exaggerate if he feels like it.

The AIM agent leans over and presses the intercom button. "SHIELD dog!" she says, and Clint sees Coulson's eyes dart around, trying to find the speaker. The glass wall of the testing room is sound proof and, Clint's presuming, bullet proof and anyway, he can see that one of the AIM goons flanking Coulson has his gun. Coulson has a bruise under his eye but otherwise looks okay, not that he's likely to stay that way if they can't figure a way out of this fuck up. "Give us SHIELD's weapon codes and we'll return this one to you," she says, prodding Clint with the muzzle of the gun.

Coulson's lips curl up at that, his expression as casual as if they were discussing lunch plans. "You can't honestly think that's going to work."

"No," she says. Clint hears the whine of the gun powering up and tenses up, makes a show of it. "So let's try another tack." She taps the button to lock the intercom on and then uses her free hand to grab Clint's hair to hold his head still. "SHIELD wanted to see our new toy in action, isn't that true? Hand over the codes or you will get a very graphic demonstration."

Coulson's expression doesn't shift. There's not a single muscle twitch, nothing even so subtle as his pupils dilating, but Clint catches the split second of hesitation before he speaks. Clint doesn't think anyone besides he and Nat would have seen that and he feels hate seethe out from every cell in his body at the woman standing behind him. Then Coulson shrugs, as if he's long since grown bored of all this. "Do it, then."

Clint makes a show of struggling, faking outrage he in no way feels; there's no other call to make, every agent knows from the second they take their badge their tour could end like this. The sound of the gun turns to a high, piercing whine and Clint realizes Coulson's going to look right in his eyes the entire time, the most masochistic thing Clint can possibly imagine. He can almost hear the AIM agent smile as she pulls the trigger.

And nothing happens.

It takes Clint a second to grasp that his head isn't splattered all over the dividing wall, then he wheels around and pulls the gun from the AIM agent's hands. The movement shoves her off balance and Clint spins the gun around like a jutte and clocks her in the side of her head, dropping her before she can pull out anything else exciting and dangerous. He pulls a pair of zip ties out of his belt and gets to work; as he's restraining her he looks up to see Coulson already has one goon on the ground and has recovered his gun. Clint sees the second coming at him from behind and tries to shout a warning, forgetting the room's sound proof but it's unnecessary. Coulson aims behind without looking and of an AIM fires twice, dropping the AIM goon flat to the ground. Clint remembers the first time he saw Coulson pull off something like that, that paper-pusher mask dropping completely. He'd known then he'd be in SHIELD for the rest of his life.

Coulson looks over to him and Clint gives the all clear signal; Coulson nods and taps his earpiece, presumably reporting back to base. Clint scans the room and catches sight agent crouched on the catwalk, watching the clean up. Or someone dressed like an AIM agent, anyway; Clint knows Nat well enough to recognize her no matter what uniform she steals. She pulls a slim metal rod out of her pocket and Clint examines the railgun, seeing the spot near the back where the piece had been removed, right below where the agent's hand would wrap around the grip so the tampering would most likely be missed. When he looks back up she's gone and Clint shakes his head. "Best call I ever made," he says to himself as he hauls the downed agent to her feet and hands her over to the waiting recovery team.

_Well_, Clint thinks to himself, _maybe second best call_. He couldn't have made it if he hadn't decided to give SHIELD a try, after all.

None of the second wave teams know where Coulson disappeared to after calling in the cleanup and it takes Clint fifteen minutes to finally find him off in a side hallway, his hands splayed flat against a narrow window ledge. He doesn't look up when Clint approaches and it's not like Clint's trying to be quiet about it. "Sir?" Up close Clint can see his eyes are wide, staring out at the AIM entrance. Frankly he looks like he's pouring all of his willpower into not throwing up. When Clint touches his arm Coulson waves him off, still not looking at him and Clint backs up. Coulson's like Nat that way, putting up _don't touch me_ walls after bad missions and they hadn't been on many that had gone worse than this.

It's not Clint's first rodeo. "The boys in clean up are looking for someone to give them orders," he says, putting that formal tone to his voice. "Sir."

Coulson nods, still not looking up. "Thank you, Barton. I'll be right there."

Three hours after debriefs Clint drops down through Coulson's living room skylight, landing two feet behind where Coulson's seated on the sofa. Coulson doesn't so much as twitch. "You're late, Barton."

The room's dark and quiet; from where he is Clint can see the floor is littered with half-written mission reports. "I kept having to explain how a one hundred pound scientist got the drop on me."

"I'm curious about that point myself." He glances up at his open skylight. "Are you ever going to get tired of doing that?"

Clint shrugs. "You keep changing around the security system. Keeps me sharp." He comes around the side, picking up the tie that's been discarded over the arm of the sofa. Coulson's suit jacket is off too, tossed to the floor on top of some more balled up reports; the man himself is leaning back against the sofa, a half-empty glass of scotch in one hand. He perches on the edge of the coffee table, not speaking until Coulson manages to look down at him for a few seconds. "Pretty sure drinking alone in the dark is one of those bad signs they keep telling us to watch out for."

"Tasha won't let me smoke anymore."

"Damn right. She's still at HQ, when I skipped out she was having fun interrogating that scientist. Woman was practically licking her chops."

Coulson nods, draining the last drops of scotch from his glass. "I made a list of handlers I think you'd work well with. Pick any one you'd like, I'll put in the paperwork myself."

Yeah, that's about how Clint thought this would go. "You know you made the right call."

He's always thought Coulson had one of the scariest smirks he's ever seen, and he's worked with some very scary people. "It's easy to say that when your head's still in one piece."

"I was thinking it when I thought I was a second from it being all over that room." Coulson finally gives him a long, steady look then and Clint knows this look. He's seen Coulson give orders he knew would get agents killed and it's always this look. "I botched the mission. There was only one call to make there, we both know it."

"I hesitated," he whispers, and there's as much recrimination there for that as for giving the order in the first place.

Clint nods. "You still made it."

"I can't make it twice."

Clint studies him for a few long moments, then takes the empty scotch glass from his hand. "You're in too deep, say the word." It feels like putting his chest in a vice and squeezing but he doesn't let that show in his voice, in his eyes. "I'll pick a name on that list and we'll wipe the slate clean." That offer's been on the table since the first line was crossed and Clint's always dreaded the day Coulson would take it.

The look in Coulson's eyes is the exact same one as when he'd turned around to see Clint on his knees with a gun to his head. Before Clint can say another word Coulson leans forward and kisses him, fingertips trailing along Clint's jaw in an apology Clint wants no part of. He shifts up to the sofa and straddles Coulson's lap, pressing him back into the Italian leather as he takes the kiss deep. He knows Coulson likes to surround himself with quality things, expensive furniture, nice suits, old scotch. How Coulson sees him fitting into that has always been a mystery to Clint. He slides Coulson's hands under his shirt, letting him feel that he's in one piece, he's all right. "How about I make a deal with you, sir?" Clint whispers, undoing the rest of buttons of his shirt then sliding his hands down past Coulson's waistband, brushing his fingertips over the tattoo from his ranger days on his hip. "I'll make sure no more scientists pull guns on me and you won't have to make any calls. Deal?"

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Barton," he banters back, but Clint sees him smile for the first time since the briefing that morning.

"I never do." He takes the list of names and balls it up, tossing to the floor with the rest of the discarded reports. He kisses down the curve of his neck as he finishes pulling the shirt off, careful not to rip it. "Let me do all the work for once. I'll make it up to you," he says, putting a leer into his voice.

Coulson just smiles, laying back on the sofa as Clint leans over him. "Tasha will be upset she missed the show."

"We'll just give her an encore."

888

Clint watched Royce page through his record, fighting the urge to drum his fingers against the arm of the chair. "I do see that," he said, and Clint felt a brief flare of hope before meeting the man's eyes. "I also see that the general protocol in those situations is to make a change in the handler assignment. Why didn't you take that opportunity?"

"You know the old saying," Clint said, letting his lips curl up into a sneer. "Better the devil you know, right?"

Royce was giving Clint that look again, the way someone might look at a dog who won't run away from an owner that beats it. Clint wondered if Royce had been one of those commanders who never sacrificed his soldiers and thought that made him better than those who did.

He could only hope he didn't look as helpless as he felt, because he didn't have any weapons left.

888

As the proceedings dragged on Natasha noticed Royce taking the lead more often. She wondered if that was related to the tension she'd begun to pick up between the two men; more and more often she saw Samson's jaw clench when Royce made a comment, or argue with the colonel over whether a question was relevant to the proceedings. She wished she could watch them enter the interrogation room; there was a lot that could be gleaned by how a person stood and moved before their minds fully focused on the task ahead, who entered a room first, when the two of them broke off to take their accustomed positions after entering the room. She didn't think they were having her enter last specifically to thwart her – it was standard SHIELD protocol, after all – but the loss was frustrating.

Especially since based on their body language during the interrogations she strongly suspected the two were arguing outside of them. Or if not outright arguing then at the very least disagreeing; Samson was too sensible a man to test Royce's temper but she couldn't miss how short Samson was growing with the man.

She hoped she found the opportunity to use that to her advantage.

"Agent Romanoff," Royce said, and she could actually see him holding back from calling her _sweetheart_. "Why don't you give me your position of Philip Coulson's performance as your handler?"

There was that jaw clench. The question itself was very neutral, Samson's fingerprints all over it, but the way Royce asked it stripped all that away. He'd revealed more about himself with his wording than Natasha thought she ever could with her answer; just the slightly vulgar tone he gave to the word "performance" told her everything she needed to know about what he expected from her answer.

And that was just the most obvious bias bleeding through; there were much subtler tells in his questions, ones she could tell he was ignorant of but she – and Samson, she suspected – saw clearly. The way he'd stopped putting "Agent" in front of Phil's name. Even calling him "Philip" was a clue; in the entire time she'd known him she had never once heard someone actually call him Philip, not even during that awkward weekend when his impressively ancient grandmother dropped by his apartment and she and Clint had to come up with cover stories on the fly as to who they were and what they were doing there, especially as it became abundantly clear that the poor woman had no clue what he actually did for a living. Even in formal SHIELD proceedings it was Phil, not Phillip.

Natasha knew better than most the power of names. She personally had more than two dozen and she was slightly different with each one she tried on, each pulling out a different side of her personality the way the color of a dress might bring out her eyes. The name always came first when constructing a new cover because it determined everything that came after. Names were how she had realized what was happening between Clint and Phil before either could have the thought themselves and what still defined them, how Phil called Clint "Barton" whether he was giving an order over an open comm or whispering it in the dark, or how Clint could turn "sir" into an endearment. Names had been how she'd found her place in this new life of hers, Clint calling her Nat even in the field but stretching it out to _Natasha_ as she knelt over him while Phil called her Tasha and Natasha and "Agent Romanoff" when he needed to be especially proper but never, ever Nat. Clint was always "Clint" to her or Hawkeye if a field name was necessary but never Barton, not since the very early days, and how when she called him Coulson in front of others it was almost a private joke between them about how it was Phil in private.

"Philip" Coulson was a man who only existed in Colonel Royce's mind. One he could convict of any number of sins.

Natasha was very tempted to tell him Phil Coulson didn't commit any of those sins without the two of them enticing him first.  
888

The nightmare's always the same. She's back in that cave with Clint, her shoulder burning from when she'd separated it digging him out and pulling him down the mountain and he won't stop shaking. She knows she needs to keep his core temperature up but he's so afraid for his hands. She regrets sometimes that the first time she let him touch her was in that freezing cave. She remembers how wild his eyes were, the way he'd begged _please don't leave me here, please don't leave me_ over and over like a child trapped in a night terror.

But in the dream no one notices they haven't checked in. There's no recovery team to finally pull her off of Clint, shivering and almost hypothermic herself. She can't keep the fire going and the air in the cave keeps getting colder until finally the next time Clint's eyes close she can't cajole them open anymore. It isn't very long at all until she's the one left alone on that mountain.

Natasha wakes with a start; it takes her a moment to orient herself in the unfamiliar hotel room, the lumpy mattress and scratchy sheets beneath her and Clint's arms warm around her. She puts her head against his chest and listens to him breathe for a few moments, banishing the nightmare back to her subconscious, then she slips out of bed. She watches Clint stretch out across the mattress as she throws on a robe and enough clothing to be more or less decent; much as she enjoys sleeping with Clint he's ridiculous to sleep next to, forcing her to fight for every inch of space.

It's a flaw she can live with. She kisses his forehead, listening to him mutter something unintelligible in return before rolling over to take up even more space, then she opens the door to the balcony to get some much needed air.

The balcony is shared with the adjoining room and Natasha is surprised to see Coulson standing on the other side.

He's so deep in thought it takes a few minutes to notice her standing there, astoundingly unobservant for him. "Tasha," he finally says, startling like she'd appeared from thin air. "I'll go back in..."

"Stop," she says, waving that away. She gives him a critical, up and down look; he's in his shirt sleeves, with no tie, leaning against the thin railing. Even he's not fastidious enough to put back on his work clothes to stand on a hotel balcony so either he fell asleep in his clothes or, considering the circles under his eyes, hadn't slept at all. Although considering that she and Clint had displayed the survival instincts of slugs let loose in a salt mine on this last mission the dark circles could have any number of causes. "What brings you out here?"

"Enjoying the view."

Natasha stares out into the barren parking lot. "It is quite stunning." Although the mission finally ended last night SHIELD's paid for the hotel through the weekend, as a sort of vacation bonus. Not that she considers two days in a dismal hotel in an ugly city to be much of a bonus. Natasha wonders about Nick Fury's sense of humor sometimes.

But even so, she's glad for Coulson's sake they have the time off; he's still stiff from the shooting and then the infiltration a month before. Frankly she doesn't think he should have been cleared for the field but it's well known at SHIELD that he's been such a pest to PT that the therapists were happy to be rid of him. And then something else catches her eye. "Are you _smoking_?"

He gives her a panicked look, as guilty as a schoolboy caught cheating. "Please don't tell Director Fury. We both quit at the same time and I'll owe him $500 if he finds out I've slipped."

"I'm good at keeping secrets." He gives her a conspiratorial grin and they both settle into their thoughts, giving her a chance to examine him more closely. She's beginning to understand how Clint can like Coulson watching him the way he does because it's beginning to grow on her, too. He doesn't hide his attraction, an appreciative regard that never veers into ogling. It's a delicate balance she has a hard time not admiring back, and at the same time he keeps that frustrating distance that's beginning to get under her skin like an unreachable itch.

"It wouldn't be the first bet I've lost to the Director," he says, breaking into her thoughts. "I lost $200 to him over you, once."

"You did? Over what?"

"I thought Barton made a mistake recruiting you," he admits. "I was sure you'd leave at the first opportunity."

"Early on I thought I would, too."

He nods, as if that confirms something he'd wondered. "It was a bet I was glad to lose." He taps some ash off the balcony ledge. "Why did you stay?" he says, not looking at her.

"What do you mean?"

"Back in the Azerbaijan mission," he says, sending the phantom chill from her nightmare through her. "The two of you were...maybe fifteen miles from the Russian border. When the avalanche happened you could have been gone before we even knew to look for you." He does look at her then, no accusation in his eyes, just honest curiosity. "Why didn't you?"

Natasha watches a pigeon peck away at a crack in the pavement below. "The thought never even occurred to me," she says. And it's true; it actually wasn't until weeks later until she'd even realized she'd missed her chance. She lets out a sigh, the raw panic she'd felt on that mountain side echoing though her for a moment the way it sometimes does through her dreams. Clint always thinks she's exaggerating considering her history but she means it when she says she'd never had a true nightmare before joining SHIELD. "I should have left," she says. They both seem to be in a confessional mood tonight. "I'm in too deep."

"Welcome to SHIELD," he says, a wry smile twisting his lips. She gives him another careful look then, at the dark circles under his eyes. Clint's told her what happened after the infiltration, and what a long time coming that was, but not how far things have gone since.

She wonders if instead of looking at a man avoiding a nightmare what she's actually seeing is a man working up the courage to knock on a door.

Natasha just isn't as patient as Clint Barton. She walks over to Coulson, snatches the cigarette from his fingers and takes a long drag on it, enjoying how he can't stop his gaze from drifting to her lips. "These are very bad for you," she says, tossing it off the balcony, then she steps close enough to feel him breathe. "Don't I owe you something?" she says, and when his brow furrows she puts one hand over his on the balcony. Then she leans up and kisses him, tightening her hand over his to keep him from pulling away. She holds the contact until she feels his lips part, until he relaxes against her like someone giving up fighting the tide.

Not a bad start. He looks a little dazed when she pulls back, and she finds she likes seeing his blue eyes like that. "Come on, Phil," she says, feeling him shiver when she says his name that way, then she takes his hand. "I think we should go back inside."

She leads him past his room and through the door to theirs; when they walk in Clint is already awake and watching them, like he's been waiting. He makes room without a word, an eager grin in his eyes as she backs Coulson onto the bed.

888

Natasha made sure to always hold Royce's gaze. It unnerved him. "Agent Phil Coulson is more than competent at his job."

Royce's frown was very sweet, but it was a hollow victory. Words couldn't win a battle with this man. She'd have to find something else.

888

It had been five days since the last interrogation. Clint thought he'd be glad to see the end of that but the radio silence around the whole thing was making him nuts. Even the hearing date was top secret, something Nat hadn't been able to tease out from anyone. An outside observer might not have guessed it but Clint liked routine; he was a creature of patience, of preparation and waiting and watching until that perfect moment revealed itself. He liked that no matter how off the wall a field mission got there was still always the ritual of briefings and debriefings and reports, seeing the same faces and reading the same handwriting. All of that was blown to hell now; he hadn't been in the field since getting off the chopper almost two weeks ago and the inactivity combined with never knowing when he'd be pulled in for another interrogation was bad enough without the hearing hanging over his head like the damned sword of Damocles. He thought if he could at least have a date he could come up with a plan for what he'd do but he couldn't even get that much. Any day Clint knew he could wake up to find out his life had been tossed off the side of a cliff and there was nothing he could _do_.

And that he hadn't heard Coulson's voice in over two weeks wasn't helping at all.

Clint thought getting a field assignment would help, any field assignment, so he'd jumped at the surveillance mission Hill threw at him to get him out of her office even though it was way below his clearance level. It would be boring and routine but it would get him the hell out of HQ and out of his own head.

He regretted the decision now. He'd underestimated how much hearing another handler's voice in his earpiece would rattle him; it wasn't that Vishnavi was doing a bad job, she was just new and young and didn't know him well enough to shut up and let him work. Worse, she still had that fresh-minted SHIELD agent shine that killed their senses of humor for most of the first year; she didn't know how to banter with him to take the edge off and when she tried the result was painful enough that he told her she didn't have to try anymore. He was practically handling her, and in any other circumstance he'd be fine with that, a surveillance job was a low-stress way to break in the newbies. He was experienced enough to not need a lot of hand holding, especially on easy missions; he'd gone jobs before where he and Coulson barely said five words to each other.

The difference being that they could do that because they didn't need to say more than five words. They knew how each other thought; if he was having a problem he could count on Coulson to know and be halfway through fixing it before he said the first word about it. That wasn't the case here; Vishnavi kept asking why he did something, asked him what was wrong if he was quiet too long and Clint didn't know how he'd deal if this was a preview of the rest of his SHIELD career. Or if this was just him waiting for the cliff to crumble beneath his feet; Vishnavi was young enough that she hadn't been at SHIELD during the bad old days, young enough to slip up and call him "Mr. Hawkeye" during the introduction after the briefing. It would be kind of sweet if Clint weren't able to look at her and know that she wouldn't be able to meet his eyes once she got her hands on his full file. SHIELD was still as black and white as her suit to her. Clint tended to add a little more red than most of those agents were comfortable with.

A bullet skidding across the concrete ledge in front of him close enough to graze his ear broke him out of the dread spiral he'd mired himself in _fast_. He dropped down flat, another bullet slamming into the ledge hard enough send a chunk flying down to the street below. He tapped his earpiece, swearing under his breath. "Barton to base, code 423. I am getting shot at, what the hell's going _on_?" This was a nothing assignment, not even an especially sensitive target, there was no reason anyone should be shooting. Especially not with a rifle this high powered. "Pretty sure this guy's out of my range, give me some guidance here."

No answer. Not the static of a jammed comm, just no response; he could hear muffled voices barking out orders in the background, too garbled to make out but with a panicked edge that turned Clint's stomach to ice. It took a lot to make SHIELD agents panic, even new ones. Another bullet whizzed over his head and Clint hunkered down lower. "Someone over there, tell me what the _hell's_ going on-"

Like it was an answer to his question the sound of an explosion ripped over the comm line, one so loud it took all of Clint's self-control to not rip out his earpiece. He counted to five and tapped it again, letting out a soft sigh of relief when the connection popped and crackled but stayed open. That meant the building was at least still standing. "Control, report," he whispered, the crack of another rifle shot splitting the air. He heard the rumble of another explosion, one fainter and farther away than the first, and squeezed his eyes shut. Rule of thumb when pinned down was to stay pinned down until word came to do otherwise, no sense giving the shooter a better target, but Clint didn't know how many guns he had trained on him or if he was even the real target. "Control, tell me what I'm supposed to do."

"Barton, keep your head." The jolt of relief hit him like the bullet he kept waiting for; Coulson's voice was the last one he'd expected to hear but _God_, was it the only one he'd wanted to hear just then.

"Sir, what's going _on_?"

"A situation." Coulson's voice sounded clipped and he was breathing hard enough for Clint to hear it over the comm line. _He's hurt_, Clint realized, the icy dread coming back. How bad he couldn't tell; Coulson was a hard read when he wanted to be, he'd walked Clint through a mission once with a bullet in his leg and Clint hadn't been the wiser for days.

And he was talking in code – a "situation" meant communications were compromised, possibly HQ as well, although the explosions had clued him into that pretty well. The last time he'd heard the word situation said in that tone had been the infiltration Clint still had nightmares about. "What kind of situation?" he said, not letting on he'd heard anything important.

"Above your pay grade." _Nothing you can help with._ Clint squeezed his eyes shut again; it was the answer he'd expected but that didn't make hearing it any easier. "Keep your mind on the mission, we don't want another screw up like Rio."

Clint frowned for a moment; Rio had been a cakewalk, not a blown mission, but Clint finally remembered a detail from the mission report: they'd had to track the Hydra agent down to Rio in the first place because she'd escaped a SHIELD crossfire in Costa Rica by playing dead. All the snipers had earned themselves a solid month of training after that fiasco, whether they were guilty of the screw-up or not.

So that meant he had two guns on him, maybe more, but that Coulson thought they were far enough away or dumb enough to fool. More information than he'd had a second ago. "Loud and clear." _Keep the line open._

Another sniper shot rang out and this time Clint let himself go limp. He made his breathing as shallow as he could make it, just in case they were watching through good scopes, but made sure to keep it steady to make sure Coulson knew he hadn't _actually_ gotten hit. "Barton? Barton, report." When Clint stayed silent Coulson swore, audibly clicking the signal over to a "secure" line and giving a meaningless code phrase to sell the con. Clint knew from experience that hackers tended not to question it when they seemed to be winning and hoped that proved true today.

And his luck – such as it was – seemed to be holding; no more shots came whizzing by his head. All Clint had to do now was somehow not react as he heard another explosion rock HQ; he could hear Coulson shouting orders on one of the other channels, coughing now; that could be fire, could be tear gas, could be something a lot worse. It didn't really matter because Clint couldn't _ask_. All he could do was hold still and wait for another explosion, for the comm to go dead and him to lose even this fragile lifeline.

He felt his mind wander back to the last time he'd been sitting in the field waiting for his comm to go dead, the AIM infiltration (because for some reason it was _always fucking AIM_.) Back to sitting on another roof with his bow trained on a terrorist they'd been trying to lay eyes on almost the entire time he'd been at SHIELD and back to hearing Coulson code talk to him over the comm. "Hawkeye, there's been a change in orders."

It was never Hawkeye. And there was a code phrase for when there was an order change to keep this kind of thing from happening. "What kind of change? _Sir_." Which basically translated to _The hell?_

"I need you to put your gun down and back away from the target." Clint remembered feeling that first cold bead of sweat slide down his neck as he watched the fading sunlight glint off his arrowhead. _I have a gun to my head. Don't listen._

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir. The kill order comes from higher up." He felt the same vicious twist to his stomach he'd felt at hearing the crack of rifle shot and looking down to see Coulson sprawled unmoving on the ground.

"Fire and I'll have you brought up on charges." _He's not buying it. Take the shot._

Clint remembered holding his breath as he loosed the arrow, a perfect shot, instant kill. "If you won't give me the kill order I'll go over your head." Arrows were silent, that was the quality that had turned him into a death machine in the first place, and whoever had been trying so hard to stop this operation had no way of knowing they'd already failed.

"This is insubordination." _Good job, Barton._

Clint had less than a second to breathe before he heard the crack of a gunshot echo over the comm and the whole thing went dead. It took three minutes for the control room to reestablish communications and Clint remembered them passing like years. He'd felt a lot of things click into place in those three minutes, helped along by the nightmare image of some goon holding a gun to his handler's head. Coulson had only been back at the job two weeks, he still had bullet fragments in his chest. Clint wasn't the praying type, never had been, but sitting on that roof he made a lot of deals with any deity who'd listen, about how he finally got it now, how if he got one more chance he'd stop wasting so much time.

Clint still didn't really believe in anything except SHIELD but he'd said a little prayer of thanks when he heard Coulson's voice again, giving him the all clear like nothing had happened.

That had been the first night he'd broken into Coulson's apartment, dropping through that skylight to catch him just as he walked through the door. Clint only gave himself a second to savor that uncharacteristic surprise on his face – Coulson was a hard man to startle, although he and Nat managed it more often than most – before he'd pushed him against the wall and kissed him, every cell in his body on fire from it. It was like standing in the dark and the lights suddenly switching on; Clint didn't know how he'd missed that this was where it had always been headed between them. Years of build up, of close calls and private jokes and bone deep fear Clint hadn't even been able to look at directly, let alone name.

Life was just too damn uncertain to keep worrying about consequences. "Say the word and this never happened," he'd whispered when he'd finally come up for air, Coulson flushed, eyes wide with surprise and holding on to Clint like he thought Clint might disappear. "Reassign me, get me kicked out, I don't care. Do what you gotta do, but I couldn't go one more day without doing that." He'd backed away and gotten out of there then because even Clint Barton could only cross so many lines in one day. He'd spent the next two weeks waiting for the hammer to fall, for a reassignment or a write up or even just Coulson pulling him aside and telling him _That was inappropriate, Barton. It won't happen again._

But there was nothing. And the next time he broke into Coulson's apartment he didn't tell Clint to leave.

And now here he was, on _another damn roof_ listening to Coulson breathing over a comm and wondering if this was the day he would hear him stop. Another day of making deals with deities he didn't really believe in, of thinking _Okay, if you're out there listening, **this time** I got it. Give me one more chance to get this right._

He was barely finished with the thought when he heard Coulson's voice soft over the line. "We got the shooters, Barton. You're clear."

Someday he was going to run out of last chances. "The hell was all that?"

"Someone trying to disrupt the operation."

"Yeah, I got that."

"You'll be debriefed when you get back. I'm handing you back to Agent Vishnavi now," he said, switching Clint to another channel before he could say another word.

He was glad she was okay; he'd assumed the worst when she'd gone black. "How's it look back there?"

"A mess. Agent Romanoff found the double agent," she said and Clint smiled, because of _course_ she had. Vishnavi managed to keep it together for another five whole seconds. "That was _amazing_."

She was hardly the first junior agent to get starry-eyed over Coulson in crisis mode, and it wasn't like Clint could even blame her. "Yeah. Always is."

That night he was already sitting on the sofa when Coulson walked through the front door. "You're late."

The man didn't even have the courtesy to look surprised. "Barton, you shouldn't be here."

He shouldn't be. The apartment was almost certainly being watched and as good as he was someone can only be so careful. "Tell me to leave." Coulson's lips thinned as he locked the door behind him but he didn't say a word. "Nat's on her way, after they let her out of the debrief. Tell us to leave and we'll go."

And just like that Clint saw that smooth composure crack. "Barton, I never tell you to leave."

Clint didn't remember getting up from the sofa; it was like he blinked and he had Coulson against the wall, like he wouldn't be able to breathe if they stayed that far apart. Coulson had stitches in his temple and flash burns down the side of his face; when Clint touched his side Coulson winced, telling Clint just how much bruising his suit was hiding. "You look like hell," he said, running the pad of his thumb just along the edge of the burns.

"It's been a day."

Clint kissed him, the soft little sigh Coulson let out rushing through him. "I can't do another two weeks. I tried, I did but it's not in me."

Coulson kissed him back then, Clint suspected mostly to shut him up. "Promise me you won't quit SHIELD."

Clint had stood in front of a firing squad once without feeling anything close to this kind of fear. "When's the hearing?"

Coulson let out a short, defeated breath. "Tomorrow morning."

The dread felt like an anchor dragging him under water. "Guess we better make tonight count, then."


	3. Chapter 3

Natasha liked to watch. Especially after long days when her hands still throbbed from punching double agents; she needed time to decompress, to get her jangled nerves under enough control for touch to be welcome.

So she thought it was a stroke of very good fortune that she'd fallen in with such incorrigible show offs. She leaned forward, resting her arms over the back of her chair and running her tongue over her lips and Phil devoted all of his considerable patience and attention to detail to turning Clint inside out. He had Clint on his back, Clint's eyes closed as Phil licked around the curve of his collarbone and trailed kisses down his chest until his breathing went ragged. Clint had a sensitive spot on his ribs from an old injury and Natasha felt her own breath catch when Clint's back arched as Phil touched him there, a soft sigh shaking out of him. She knew Phil liked to draw things out until Clint begged, one of their favorite little games. Sometimes it was the other way around too, of course, but she could tell Clint was determined to give Phil anything he wanted tonight, and Phil wanted Clint beneath him until he couldn't take any more.

Finally she heard Phil whisper to him, "Turn over," and she thought the two of them were the only ones who ever got to see Clint Barton smile like that.

"Yes, sir." Clint loved taking Phil's orders, whether on duty or not, and the nights where they really got into that were some of Natasha's favorites. But as Phil trailed one hand down Clint's back she knew that would hit too close to the nerve, with the hearing looming in the morning. Tonight was all about extending touch and taste as far as it could go, the sound of breathing filling the room to keep the nightmares away. By the time Phil had Clint moaning his name Natasha felt the heat over her own skin.

"Come on, Clint," she said, dropping into Russian and grinning at the low chuckle that drew from Phil. Why switching to Russian had that effect on them was a mystery for the ages as far as she was concerned, but it was certainly fun to watch. "Give the man what he wants." Clint moaned, a bead of sweat trailing down those ridiculously perfect arms of his. Phil's eyes locked with hers as she kept talking Clint closer to the edge, then he kissed along Clint's spine, one hand reaching around to tease him further. She was tempted to join in but held herself back when Clint's eyes started to flutter. Watching Clint Barton's eyes as he came was one of Natasha's very favorite sights in the world. Clint collapsed shaking down to the bed and Natasha knelt behind Phil, scratching her nails down his back and she whispered into his ear now, smiling at how wide she could make those blue eyes of his go.

Coulson made a perfunctory attempt at cleaning up before Clint wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him back to the bed, muttering drowsy nonsense at him until Phil gave up and relaxed against him. It took a few minutes for him to gather back enough of his senses for Phil to realize she was still sitting there shamelessly ogling the two of them. "What are you doing?"

"Enjoying the view."

He shifted over, stealing some space from Clint to make room at the edge of the bed. "C'mon."

Natasha stripped and slid into bed beside him, relishing the warmth of his skin as he wrapped one arm around her waist. Phil Coulson was the only man she'd ever slept with who both never stole the covers and whose hands never wandered – at least until she wanted them to. "Watch him tomorrow," he murmured into her hair.

She wondered how much the secrecy around the hearing date had to do with the fear that Clint would do something truly stupid. "You know I will."

She felt him nod. "Simmons is very good. You won't have anything to worry about if you're assigned to her. Sitwell, too, he's been a mission supervisor for the past few years but he'd handle you both as a favor to me. Vishnavi is young but she has a lot of potential, I oversaw her training. Vickers drinks, so, you know. Look out for that." She wrapped his arm more securely around her. "Tasha, if I...if I ever coerced you into anything, either of you, I just..."

She twisted around to look at him. "Is that what they tried to make you believe?" He didn't need to answer, she could feel the guilt pouring off him. She kissed him, trailing her fingertips along his jaw before rolling him over to his back. "I've been forced to do many things by many men in my life," she said, tracing the bruises down his side. "Believe me when I say you're not one of them." He started to protest and she placed one finger across his lips. "I know my own mind, Agent Coulson. Don't try to convince me otherwise, it's a battle you'll lose." She braced her hands against his shoulders as she lowered herself onto him, slowly enough to be teasing. His hands moved to cradle her hips as she started to move, his eyes bright as he looked at her in that way he had, like he wasn't quite sure she was real. Clint was awake again and watching them like he wanted to eat them both alive. He pushed himself to his knees, cupping one hand around her breast as he kissed her, then lay back down to lick along the curve of Phil's neck.

"You two are not fair," he said, tipping up his chin to give Clint better access. Phil traced his thumbs around her nipples until they were hard under his hands and Natasha started riding him hard, smiling when she got him to whisper her name. She leaned down, kissing him as she found that perfect angle, moaning against his lips as one more rock of her hips sent her climax shaking through her. She felt him sigh as she contracted around him, then she only had to wait a few seconds before he was breathing in gasps, his hands tangling in her hair as he came. Clint threw a possessive around them both as they collapsed into a graceless heap, Phil trembling in her arms and Clint kissing her anywhere his lips could reach.

Natasha closed her eyes and waited as their breathing deepened and slowed around her. When she was sure they were both asleep she crept from the bed, careful not to disturb either; she dressed in silence, smiling as Clint stretched out, one arm locked still tight around Coulson's waist.

She stood in the doorway watching them for a long time before finally slipping away.

888

The window was nothing. Single pane of glass, simple lock. It was almost like SHIELD was _trying_to get its independent contractors assassinated. She'd already been sitting on the man's sofa for ten minutes before Leonard Samson walked in, dropping his mug of tea all over the floor when he turned around and saw her. "Don't you SHIELD people use doors?" he said, going back into the kitchen to find something to sop up the mess.

"I'm surprised you weren't issued any guards."

"I'm starting to think I should have asked for some," he said, coming back with a roll of paper towels and a dustbin to pick up the shattered mug.

"I'm here to talk about your report."

"And I'm going to tell you the same thing I told your archer friend earlier this evening, I already _submitted_my report." Natasha felt herself blink at that; Clint must have found time for that when she and Phil were still being debriefed. He finished cleaning up and sat in the chair across from her, his hands steepled in front of his face. "But since you're at least not pointing a bow at my face I'll also tell you that I recommended no disciplinary action and that the charges be dropped as unfounded."

Natasha couldn't remember the last time she'd been surprised so many times in the same five minutes. "You...did?"

"Please, don't hide your surprise on my account." He leaned back in the chair, letting out a heavy sigh. "Look, when I told you that I would be making an impartial verdict, I meant it."

That had been her read on Samson, but it was nice to see she'd judged him correctly. "So you truly believe the charges are unfounded."

"As written? Yes, I do." He shook his head. "That's not to say I _don't_believe that something's going on between the three of you, just that I don't think it should be a subject to measures, certainly not the draconian ones Royce is seeking. Do you want tea? I still have some that's not currently staining the rug."

"I wouldn't mind it," she said, still trying to follow where this conversation was going.

"Milk or sugar?"

"One sugar's fine." He came back in and handed her one mug; she could tell from his own he put in so much milk she doubted it was even still hot. "Wouldn't it make less of a mess to just have the glass of milk?"

"You leave my tea-flavored milk alone, Agent Romanoff." He grinned at her, something people rarely did. It was hard to remember that she wasn't supposed to like him. "Let me clear up a misconception I think you have about me – me not being in SHIELD is actually a good thing for you right now. It means I don't have to worry about rules and regulations and can just give my opinion as a psychologist."

"And what is your opinion?"

"Psychologically speaking, we don't classify something as a disorder unless and until it begins to have a negative effect on the patient. Basically, something's not a problem until it's a problem. That's not to say I don't understand where Royce is coming from or that this investigation is baseless, because 99 times out of 100 this exact situation would be a gross abuse of power. Especially, and forgive me for saying this, when the power is held over subordinates with a history of being manipulated and who have been fed a redemption narrative. That's a heavy thing to hold over someone's head."

"We're not operating under a 'redemption narrative.'"

"That Agent Barton insisted on being called 'Agent' instead of by a military rank says otherwise. And I'm not saying that's a negative thing, necessarily, just that it can be turned into one."

"But you don't believe that's what's happening."

"What I believe is that Agent Barton has gone from almost being dismissed to not having any disciplinary write ups in over five years. That's an incredible turn around, especially from someone who, frankly, had been exhibiting clear sociopathic tendencies prior to that. And Agent Romanoff, if I showed your psychological profile from before you joined SHIELD and then your most recent evaluation to my colleagues – and don't worry, I don't plan on actually doing that – I can assure you that not one of them would believe they belonged to the same person. This..._whatever_it is you have, I can't see that it's harmful, or frankly that it's even coercive. The three of you are, at least in my personal judgment, the exception that proves the rule as far as fraternization goes. I actually think we could be looking at some very destructive backsliding if there is any action taken."

"And that's really what you put in your report?"

"With a liberal application of shrink jargon, yes. I really am on your side here."

Natasha found herself very much wanting to believe that. "Do you think Royce will agree with you?"

Samson hesitated before answering. "Colonel Royce is a man who believes in rules, not exceptions."

Well. That settled that. "Thank you, Doctor Samson."

"I told you, call me Doc. Leo, even."

"Leo. This has been very helpful."

"I'm sorry if things don't work out the way you'd like tomorrow."

"I think things will work out exactly how I want, actually."

His brows drew together into a worried frown. "Please don't do anything you'll regret. That can't help anyone."

"Leo, trust me, this won't even be in the same country as the things I regret."

888

Natasha was sitting at Royce's kitchen table and had read his report over twice by the time he finally walked through the front door. "You keep late hours, Colonel."

"I didn't know I would be expecting company." He didn't seem afraid, or even all that upset, the way Samson had; of course, Samson had also received a visit from Clint and she doubted Royce could say the same. This location was classified, unlike Samson's, and it would have taken Clint more time than he'd had available to find it.

And of course Royce wasn't completely feathered with arrows, which would definitely be the case if Clint had read this report. "I don't enjoy suspense."

"You should have asked, I have nothing to hide. What do you think of my assessment?"

She hadn't thought it possible, but it was actually worse than she'd expected. Her worst-case scenario had been dismissal from SHIELD but this was pointing to actual criminal prosecution. "You didn't seem to put much stock in Doctor Samson's evaluations."

"He's in Fury's pocket," Royce said with a sad shake of his head.

"That's not been my impression."

"Trust me, Agent Romanoff, I can look at this with a clearer eye than you."

Natasha kept her expression perfectly neutral. "I suppose it is your job to be objective."

She watched the sub textual criticism fly right over his head. "It is indeed. I wish you would look at me as your advocate, not your adversary."

"Do I need an advocate?"

"I think it's clear the both of you do." He sighed, the way one would sigh at having to explain calculus to a child. "Distance gives clarity, I think Agent Barton would agree with that."

"What about Doctor Samson's report did you disagree with?"

"All of it?" He sighed again. "I see where he was coming from, I do, but you let a man step over a line once and he'll never stop. There are reasons rules exist, good reasons. We're all responsible for our choices. There have to be consequences."

Natasha closed the file, tapping the edges neatly into place against the table."In my experience I've found there are very few actually good people in this world," she said, staring into the darkness beyond the kitchen window

"Yes, that's it exactly. And it's our job to protect those good people."

"I'm so glad you agree." Natasha stood, tucking the file under one arm as she walked over to Royce. "You should keep this in a more secure place." As he reached out to take it she flicked her wrist, releasing her stiletto from its hidden sheath and pressing its tip just under his sternum. "I wouldn't move."

"Agent Romanoff, I understand that right now..."

"I'm not a good person." She pressed the tip of the blade in just a little bit more. "But I am a very patient one when I choose to be. And you're correct, we are responsible for our choices, so I'm going to explain the two choices you have in front of you. The first is to go to the hearing tomorrow and submit this report exactly as it is. The second is to follow Doctor Samson's recommendation. I won't stop you either way."

She stepped forward, close enough for him to see her eyes despite the dim light. "I've disabled all of the listening devices here. No one's monitoring us. I just want to make it clear that this is a very private agreement between the two of us."

She paused for a few moments, just long enough to let him wonder whether that was true. "As I said, I won't stop you from appearing at the hearing tomorrow. Taking action now would just make the situation worse. They can always find another inquisitor. But Colonel Royce, I promise you, if you make that first choice there will come a day where you find yourself in another dark room. And on that day, just when you've convinced yourself that you're alone, that is the moment when you will turn around and find me there with you." She stood closer still, close enough to whisper in his ear. "There are always consequences." She let him look in her eyes as she let her old, hidden self come to the surface, the one an old trainer had praised as being made of darkness and poison, held him at knife point and made him really see the Red Room's greatest work of art until she saw something in him shake. Then Natasha flicked her wrist, withdrawing the stiletto and placing the file on the chair beside him. "Thank you for your cooperation."

888

The hearing the next day was anticlimactic in the best way possible; she and Clint barely had the chance to start worrying – well, Clint had started worrying, Natasha got to occupy herself by keeping him from lurking on catwalks and frightening the junior agents - before Jen Walters walked out of the hearing chamber, grinning like she'd just swindled a million bucks from the Supreme Court. Natasha heard Clint breathe out a relieved, "Oh, thank fucking _God_," when Phil walked out after her, looking a little dazed but none the worse for wear. They both knew that if the decision had been against them he would have been deep in the SHIELD machinery, not walking free.

There was no time for celebrating, aside from her playing lookout while Clint and Phil disappeared for a half hour in exchange for a favor to be named later. Almost before she and Clint could let themselves relax Phil told them to report for a mission briefing – Natasha supposed she shouldn't have been surprised he'd managed to keep working up missions during all this. She and Clint needed to find him some more hobbies. "Natasha, a word?" he said when the briefing was over; she glanced over to Clint, who shrugged before slipping out of the room to gear up. He glanced around before speaking and Natasha wondered how long it would take before the paranoia of the past few weeks would begin to fade. "I told Barton earlier -" she grinned at that, because she sincerely doubted they'd done much in the way of _talking_?"-but Director Fury assured me there shouldn't be any more problems like this. He seems to believe this was all an indirect attack at his authority in the first place." She was suddenly overtaken by the image of Fury popping champagne alone in his office; nothing made him happier than getting one over on the Security Council, no matter how petty the victory. He drummed his fingers on the conference table, looking like he didn't want to ask this next question. "Tasha, what did you do?"

She pasted on her most innocent expression. "Beg pardon?"

"I woke up last night and you were gone, then this morning there's suddenly a miraculous turn around. What did you _do_?"

Natasha sat on the table with a casual shrug. "I can make a persuasive case when I want to." He looked faintly appalled at that. "I thought I had a helicopter to catch."

She could tell he would bring this back up again later but that he'd give her the out now. "Thank you."

Natasha waved that away. "Come on. Let's do our jobs."

"There's something coming up with Stark we need to talk over, too."

She just rolled her eyes. "Sounds like a joy." She hopped off the table and straightened his tie, letting the touch linger. She felt a barely suppressed shiver run through him at that, like he couldn't quite shake the idea they were being watched. She'd been entirely too easy on Royce. "Later, though. Clint's going to think we're having fun without him."

"We wouldn't want that." There was a very un-Phil Coulson tremor to his voice as he said that but he was already teasing back, and as she pulled away he let his fingers rest on her wrist for a handful of seconds, the touch a thank you and a promise all in one. She stood in the doorway for a few seconds, watching him settle back into his Agent of SHIELD glory as he tapped on his earpiece. "I'll be in contact once the two of you are in the air."

"You'd better. We'll see you back home."

She saw emotion well in his eyes before closing the door behind her, indulging in a sigh as she felt the weight of the past two weeks lift off her shoulders. She and Clint would have to do some serious conspiring on ways to celebrate later.

Clint caught her eye as she strapped in and she gave his hand a quick squeeze. As they lifted off he whispered in her ear and she could tell he was already way ahead of her.


End file.
